Extraordinary
by kimmiesjoy
Summary: They turn in opposite directions and his skin is on fire, hot annoyance like acid through his veins and - it stuns him - he's hurt. Set S2 during When The Bough Breaks. M for language and content.
1. Castle

_Let the bough break, let it come down crashing..._

"Well fine it's settled then." He states, angry now.

"Fine!"

"I'll do the other book." He clarifies.

"Great." She grunts the word, attacks it as if she hates it. Hates him.

"Enjoy the party."

"Thanks, I will."

Castle leans in close, sees the flame in her eyes, the anger that makes her glow and shimmer. Indignant. Gorgeous. Fucking aggravatingly distracting.

She's still talking. He wants to shut her up with his mouth. Then he wants to use it to make her scream.

She arrives in a skin tight dress and acts shocked that he calls her extraordinary, shy even, and then happily casts him aside telling him to run off and write spy novels.

What the fuck, Beckett?

"You know what, just as well, because there really wasn't enough to the character of _Nikki Heat_ for more than one novel anyway." He glowers, wanting to press her buttons, get under her skin, under that damn electric blue dress that is messing with his ability to focus.

She's sensuous, all curves and clinging material. Sex on legs and he can see every inch of them. He wants to leave an indelible ink trail with the heat of his tongue, from ankle to hip. He wants to hear her hiss as he licks his way up and up and up.

"Oh, there's plenty to the character." She throws back, an evil little smile on her lips, "She just needs a better writer."

"Fine." He bites out, when what he means is _what the actual fuck_? Better writer? Good luck finding someone who can read you the way I can, Beckett!

"Fine."

They turn in opposite directions and his skin is on fire, hot annoyance like acid through his veins and - it stuns him - he's hurt.

Yes, okay that hurt, her words fucking_ hurt._ Better writer? He thought she liked - fuck why does it matter what she likes?

Because you _like_ her. The stupid little voice at the back of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Paula strikes up again.

_That's one hell of a love letter you wrote her._

It's not a love a letter.

He palms his neck, flips three buttons and still can't find relief. Castle heads for the bathroom wanting less eyes on him as he digests her words, to splash some water on his skin.

He's not in love with her.

He slams the door behind him, flips the faucet and fills the sink with ice cold water.

He can't be in love with her.

_Then why does it hurt that she wants a better writer?_

"Shut up." He hisses into the empty room, stall doors all wide and reflected in the mirror he stares into, deliberately avoiding his own eyes.

Empty, thank god, because the last thing he needs is rumors spreading he's lost his mind. Talking to himself in the Men's Room? He needs that on page six like a hole in the head.

And he's already playing up the bad boy image by acquiescing to Paula's last request.

_"Don't shave, Rick. Boost your sales."_

What does it matter if he boosts his sales if he's dropping Nikki for a more lucrative offer?

Why does it burn that he won't get to hear her story, let alone tell it?

Not_ Nikki's_ story. _Beckett's_.

_That's one hell of a love letter you wrote her._

Oh, fuck. He's in love with her? Is he? Is that was this is?

He's followed other women, researched and had muses far more willing and cooperative before, but none of them have gotten under his skin the way she has. None of them have gone out of their way to make him toe the line.

She doesn't give up, she doesn't cave. She doesn't take his crap. But she does make him earn every damn half inch he gains.

He likes that. Likes _her_. Does that mean it's _love_?

Right now he's just pissed off. She's so - beautiful? - frustrating.

He growls and the door behind him slams open, rebounds and slams shut so fast he's almost convinced he imagined it.

Except she's standing there -

"Beckett?"

- framed in the doorway with blistering rage burning over her crimson cheeks and cascading down between her breasts.

Her chest is dancing up and down as she fights to breathe. Her lips are narrow white lines, written in anger, and her eyes burn into his reflection viciously.

If she's armed, he's screwed.

Then she flips the lock and he turns, his own anger back and hitting boiling point, confusion fast on its heels. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She levels him with a look, floors him with the naked intent written in that mishmash of brown and green. She takes him down like a suspect with just the flash of her eyes and the way she drops her hands to her hips.

And then she's moving.

When she reaches him she smiles and he knows he's done for. He's not even sure he wants to survive whatever she's got planned.

Beckett drives him back into the wall and nudges a knee between his legs and runs the heel of her stiletto up the back of his calf. She coils herself around him like a snake, every soft groove and hard edge perfectly aligning with its counterpart on his own body.

He can feel the heat of her radiate through the skintight material of her dress.

She wets her lips, breathes his name and pushes her tongue into his mouth. Her eyes wide open and staring into his the entire time.


	2. Beckett

**A/N:** Overwhelmed by the response is somewhat of an understatement. Thank you for taking the time to read, alert or review, it makes these dark December days a whole heap brighter.

* * *

Her chest is heaving. Actually heaving with rage as the breath explodes out of her in violent bursts.

Her eyes are narrowed and every person she meets on her rapid journey away from _him_ flinches when she catches their eye.

Good!

Anger bubbles under the surface of everything. Claims like fire, hot flames licking at her insides and singeing everything in their path. Her reason burns to a cinder, her focus and control ash in seconds.

She wants to smash something.

She wants her gun.

Dammit, she wants _him_.

Fuck.

They were so close she could practically _taste_ him and for a split second she thought he was going to ask -

He's a fucking idiot. But she _wants_ him.

He didn't shave, playing up his _devil may care_ playboy image no doubt, and she shouldn't be thinking about kissing him and feeling the rasp of his stubble over her skin. She shouldn't be thinking about kissing _him_ at all.

But she is.

Kissing him.

Or killing him.

She's torn between them as if they are her only options when the idea to fuck him senseless springs to life again and god, she wants that. But it won't work because he just doesn't see her as that person.

Doesn't really see_ her_ at all. He can't.

_Not enough to the character?_

She growls under her breath, storms forwards looking for the nearest exit, her mind whirling. He has no fucking clue what he's talking about.

_Don't think you know me._ That's what she threw at him that first day but by now he should know_ something_.

That's the problem right there, she thinks as she stops dead, he has_ no idea_ who he's dealing with. She's not some fictional two dimensional cop. She's not bound by the ink and paper confines of his plot line.

She thought - well it doesn't fucking matter what she thought because clearly he's an idiot and so is she.

She has fucking_ layers_. He has no idea. None.

Of who she is. Or what she's capable of.

_Never been scorned?_

She turns on her heels and eyes the crowd, suddenly searching for him.

Is he blind? Never been scorned and yet he stands there oblivious?

He calls her_ muse_ and sees her as what exactly?

Mythical?

Untouchable?

She's a flesh and blood woman for crying out loud and he's an arrogant ass. But she _wants_ him. The writer. _Her_ writer. The _man_ she thought she saw a glimpse of.

He calls her_ extraordinary_, like it's nothing. Like it wouldn't knock her for six that he could see her that way.

He has no idea.

She wants to _show_ him. Let him peel her apart and see exactly how _extraordinary_ she can be.

She thought he was going to ask. Heat like fire pools low in her stomach, ripples out like lava as the realization rolls over her. Now she wants to hear him _beg_.

A vivid flash of him working her with his mouth as she stares down from above ricochets through her mind and Beckett stumbles to a stop in the middle of the room.

He names her_ muse_ and she wants to _inspire_ him to his _knees_.

He wants extraordinary and he has no idea what she's capable of.

Maybe she _should_ show him.

Fire surges through her blood, the heat of confrontation hot on its heels lifting her to the balls of her feet and twisting her police tactical training into something darker, dirtier.

She navigates the crowd and spies him slinking into the Men's Room.

Perfect.

* * *

When she throws open the door he's already lost the jacket.

Elbows deep in the basin, the sound of the door flying open and slamming shut again makes his head snap up. With the flat of her palm holding the door shut she stares him down in the mirror.

His eyes burn into hers yet he doesn't retreat or look contrite. He looks pissed, grouchy, roughed up and a little dangerous. He looks hot and vulnerable at the same time and damn if that doesn't make her want him more.

"Beckett?"

Her breath is coming fast, actions happening before her brain has time to assess them, contradict them. She's operating on pure instinct and she likes it.

When she flips the lock he spins and a shower of water cascades from his arms, ice cold pinpricks landing on her bare legs. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

_You._

The word stays there, hungry, at the tip of her tongue and she can't find the voice to set it free. Her eyes fall on his open shirt, his rolled up sleeves, to the graze of stubble at his jawline. To his eyes and the soft swell of his lips.

And - oh, fuck it - screw words.

She launches herself at him, pushes him back until he stops moving, until he can go no further and she slides in close.

He's warm under her hands, smells familiar and unknown and the rasp of his pants against the soft skin of her inner thighs makes her insides quiver.

She doesn't think, doesn't speak.

Her breath comes fast and loud and she needs to be closer, running her foot up the back of his calf until her heel catches at his knee.

She hooks her leg around him, shifts her weight and - fuck - she might as well be naked, she can feel _every_ inch of him through the suddenly too tight cling of her dress.

Beckett wraps an arm around his neck, tugs his shirt collar to bring his face closer, fingertips just shy of grazing over his jawline and burning to do it.

"Castle!" She breathes, and it comes out husky, needy. Not what he expected. It _stuns_ him. Oh, she likes that. She smiles.

Beckett gets one last good, clear look in his eyes and registers his shock - ha, good, smug bastard - then her hands are in his hair and her mouth is opening against his.

He wants extraordinary?

He'll get it!


	3. Her kiss

**A/N:** I plan to update as and when I can over the next week. Thank you all so much for reading.

* * *

She doesn't back down and the challenge in her eyes is unmistakable.

She kisses him like it's a battle, like it's every conversation they've ever had, every argument. Every crossed word and narrowed eye from the moment they met all wrapped up in the surge of her body and rough touch of her lips.

She bites, nips and takes what she wants, her hands aggressive over his chest, nails sharp when she finds skin, leaving bright red marks in their wake.

She kisses him like she means it.

Like she's waging a war.

Like the answer to life and death can be found in the way her tongue slides hot inside his mouth, how it twists and lays over his and _strokes_. Hot. Thick. Sweet. Again and again and again until he thinks he's about to pass out.

How the _fuck_ does she do _that_?

She's not gentle, not soft and girly or tittering. She doesn't giggle, she growls, she's not submissive but demanding and the urge to have hits him like a fist in the gut.

He wants her like this, up against the sink with her dress pushed high and her legs wrapped around his head. He wants to taste every hidden inch beneath the silken blue cloth.

She nips again, vicious, _angry_, and _that_ pisses him off.

Why the fuck is_ she_ angry when she's the one who wants to send him away? When she wants a better writer? When he's the one half in lo-

He wraps one arm around her waist, fingers digging into her hips, palm at the back of her head, and Castle pours every ounce of whatever it was he was _not_ about to think straight into that kiss.

He uses her mouth to drown out the thoughts in his head before he can think the words he's too terrified to admit to.

He inhales thickly against her skin, swallows around her tongue and lets her press him into the wall.

He sucks the softness of_ her_ into his mouth and pulls her closer, hitches her leg higher, _tastes_ her a little deeper.

_Beckett._

Out loud or internalized he doesn't know, but he chokes on it again, her name and the coal black burn of desire, thirst, passion, hunger that comes rolling off her in thundering waves.

He squeezes her ass, lets his palm drift to the division of her butt cheeks outlined by the skin tight material and he strokes the line back and forth, leaving dark wet trails from the tips of his dripping fingers.

She grunts, rage making her rise up, the leg coiling around his opening her up and she rocks onto the balls of her feet, dropping a serpentine hand between them.

He's a poetic bastard even in his own mind, too flowery when he should give in to his animalistic side. But his wounded writer pride is throwing words around even as his hips thrust up hard into her waiting hands.

His wet fingers snag in her hair and it pulls them apart, ragged breath exploding between them but his teeth hold onto her bottom lip as long as possible, tracing it with his tongue.

Her breath licks over his face, in heavy, loud and panted gasps that drive the peaks of her breasts into his chest.

Their eyes flicker, catch and lock. An intensity of emotion surges between them. Shock, need, anger, so _much_ anger, and behind them all something he will not name.

_That's one hell of a love letter you wrote her._

Fuck that.

Lust. Nothing more.

_Lies._

Heated breath ransacks their lips, her skin soft in his mouth, hot and wet and making him want to slide his fingers further up under that clinging blue dress. He wants to glide over her thighs and find hotter, wetter places within her body.

He wants to hear her croak his name as she comes.

There's a flash of it in her pupils too, something knowing, something _more_ hidden behind her anger, but the moment he catches sight of it it explodes in a maelstrom of sensation.

Her fingers find him, hard and reaching, pressed tight into the warmth of her belly and she squeezes, squeezes and rakes her nails down the sides of his wide erection making him hiss and release her lip.

She retreats but doesn't get far, surging back into him and the second he finds her mouth, licks the line of her lips - wanting back inside - her eyes slam shut and a growl radiates through her chest.

Why the fuck is she mad _now_?

He doesn't know but he can feel it. Feel the rage like electricity over her skin. Feel it race up the backs of her legs, spread through her like wildfire.

She sizzles with it.

It makes _no sense_.

_She_ makes no sense. Fucking crazy woman. Maddening, she's maddening and she tastes like mint and everywhere they touch_ burns_.

Beckett presses the swell of her breasts tight to his chest, shifts on her feet so that her nipples - already straining through the thin material of her dress - catch on his buttons.

She teases herself and grinds into him, rolls her hips into his so that he grunts. Then she pulls him in tighter by the buckle of his belt, holds him in place and does it again.


	4. His touch

**A/N:** This story in its entirety is dedicated to the first person I ever met on FF, Happy Birthday Diane. I was hoping to keep it as a surprise, I hope I succeeded. To everyone else Merry Christmas x thank you for reading, reviewing, alerting and making me smile! Festive Hugs all round!

* * *

_Fire_ and ice.

He stumbles as he turns them and she laughs, not lost in the moment but enjoying his weakness. Enjoying that she gets to him.

And judging by the hard, thick feel of him under her hand, she's getting to him _a lot_.

But it's an almost bitter sound that leaves her mouth, not merry more_ merciless_. To her own ears it sounds harsh and unyielding and it's fucking aggravating.

Fire and _ice_.

He retaliates, anger and arrogance indignant when she snickers against his lips and he claims her mouth again before the sound can die over her tongue.

He's hard almost the moment she gets her hands on him. Rolling her fingers up and down, squeezing and molding around him, imagining her body contorting to absorb him.

It's almost too much.

She thrusts her tongue so far into his mouth she half hopes he'll choke on it only to find herself almost delirious with pleasure when he sucks her deeper.

Her nose grazes his, stubble harsh against the edge of her lips and her cheeks but she will not close her eyes whilst he kisses her. She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her melt.

Electric blue and smoldering red.

She can taste his anger like pepper that scalds each harsh kiss to her lips. She can hear it in the rough rasp of material as she wrenches open his shirt.

She can feel it. _Everywhere_.

His skin is soft and warm, with a hard edge of muscle that she doesn't even realize she's touching, openly caressing and reveling in, until he hums straight into her mouth.

Anger ripples through her again when he shudders and delves between her lips, seeking out that noise she won't acknowledge. He's enjoying it too much and not _enough_ and she takes it out on his nipples, dragging her nails over them harshly. They rise up under her touch and she tweaks them, uses her nails to nip at him and make him flinch.

He smells like ink. Or maybe she imagines it. It's not as if he writes with a fucking quill. She's fantasized about his inky fingers leaving patterns over her naked skin. Large blue thumb prints spanning the entirety of her usually blush-pink nipples.

She's imagined herself purple with the smudges of their connection.

His hands open wide and engulf her waist, her head, her ass, her whole body suddenly feeling wrapped up in his and she gasps, feeling Castle push himself back inside her mouth forcefully.

_Mmmm_.

Fuck, no, she didn't moan. She won't, isn't and will not make that happy little rumbling sound again. She's mad at him and she will stay that way.

_Not enough to the character._

That's a fucking insult, to her and to Nikki. But she's not a character, she's Beckett. Katherine. Kate! She's a multi-faceted woman of substance. She's flawed and she's human.

She's real.

But he doesn't do real.

_Does he?_

Before she has a chance to answer the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Lanie, she gasps again. Her head's tugged back by his eager hands, fingers angling her jaw for a deeper, more thorough kiss that she can feel to the tips of her toes.

Thundering in her pulse.

In the pulsating wet flesh between her legs.

She grinds against him, wanting his fingers down from her face and pushing up inside her.

She shivers when he pushes back, makes her take a step back and still manages to get his thigh riding higher, sliding up under her dress. He follows it with his hands and she gasps, her mouth popping wide.

His fingers are freezing, ice cold pinpricks against her skin, but everywhere his fingertips graze her flesh she_ burns_.

He swallows down the outraged gasp that leaves her when his ice cold - and still dripping wet - hands slide up the backs of her thighs and under her dress.

She squirms, eager to get away, desperate to get closer, she shoves him away with her hands flat to his chest, pulls his pelvis in flush with hers using the deathly and relenting grip of her thigh muscles.

He urges her up, and she comes, lifting her legs and wrapping them around him, ankles hooking at his lower back. She tastes the smoky bite of anger that ripples through the kiss.

She sinks her teeth into his lip, hard, and waits for the taste of blood that never comes and something hard nudges into her ass.

She's balanced on the row of basins, her dress up around her waist.

She claws at his back, rakes through his hair to tug his back and her eyes open. She glares at him even as his tongue finds it way back into her mouth, even as she curls a hand between them and squeezes him again.

She fumbles, breathes deep and then flicks open the zipper on his pants, her hand sliding inside to claim him.

His eyes flash open as hers slam shut.

_Fuck, Castle._

She doesn't mean to speak but she does, and though her eyes are closed she can feel his focus on her face. Her words, _his name_, slipping free just as he does, smooth like velvet and hard as rock.

Castle growls her name. A hard, controlled _Beckett_, right into her ear that sends ripples straight to her core. Just his voice, his voice and the swirl of his tongue over the cartilaged ridge of her ear.

He captures her wrist when she starts to encircle him, arms primed to pump the length of him and drive him wild. He tilts her chin and her eyes open, staring straight into his.

Midnight blue pools leak into an obsidian black of lust.

He swallows, wets his lips and his hands open on the highest swell of her thighs, driving them apart to step between. His palms scorch, each finger spread wide from the rest and sizzling, skin to skin.

Their eyes lock.

Chests heaving.

Mutual anger simmering to a blood boiling need.

The tips of his fingers claim the moist scrap of silk that barely covers her and without another thought he drags it down her legs.


	5. Exquisite

He plants Beckett on the very edge of the end counter, feels her squirm when the cold marble bites into her skin. His fingers reach, spreading wide, pushing her dress up higher and higher and it hits him when she sinks her teeth into his lip.

Castle retaliates.

He presses the shudder of exhilaration to the tips of his fingers and sweeps them over her chest. Her teeth chase over his lip followed by her tongue. And when he finds her nipples, her mouth opens and a whimper rambles out, descending to the pit of his stomach.

He kisses her deep, lets her steer him where she wants him, rabid roaming movements, tearing apart his clothes.

About half a second into the kiss that tells him exactly how this ends, it hits him.

He's _in love_ with her.

Not just a little bit. Not in a_ fuck she looks good enough to eat in that dress_ way.

Not even in the _that's one hell of a love letter, are you sleeping with her? Get it out your system_ way that Paula saw long before he did.

It's almost elemental, how it crashes over him, makes everything inside freeze, hard as rock, and then splinter apart. Like molten lava.

Something inside him shatters.

It hurts.

It's terrifying.

It's _Beckett_.

She's not playing fair, taking her anger out on him in strangely arousing ways - the bite of her nails leaving a forever kind of sting across his chest - and he lets her, for the briefest moment.

He takes her punishment to see what happens next.

Her hands shoot between them, dress hitched indecently high and her fingers not in the least bit tentative.

She curls, grasps and pulls and even through the thin material of his dress pants Castle knows, shrewd movements like that will have him a broken mess in minutes.

If not seconds.

He wants her moan over his lips again. Around his tongue. He wants that stuttered, pissed off sound that mixes with the warmth of her mouth and the rasp of her skin.

_He's in love with her._

Her eyes open and she's trying to get her hands on him, lithe fingers flicking belt buckles and tugging zippers and her head tilted down away from him.

He lifts her chin, strokes her jaw and finds her soft. Soft and hot.

And _angry_.

His fingers slide and he can't help it, he tangles himself in her hair again. He's already devastated the twisted up-do with his wet fingers and straggly ends curl just at her ears. It doesn't matter now what raggedy mess he leaves in his wake because he just needs to touch her. Get lost in her.

He sweeps his thumb across her bottom lip, presses at the edge of her mouth for entrance and pushes his tongue into her mouth when she opens for him.

She's still mad at him. Raging. Squirming. She shoves her hands between them again, her eyes open and somehow she fumbles the clasp open.

He can feel the ripple through her fingers as she shakes. He feels it too, an intensity so forceful that it stuns him motionless for a moment.

And then she's touching him.

Her hands are smooth as she strokes him, the tips of her fingers a little roughened. He imagines it's from holding her weapon. Loading her gun.

A flare of arousal darts through him and he feels himself harden in her grip.

"Fuck, Castle."

Her lips barely gasp against his own and her eyes slam shut. He can't help it, he stares.

Her hands are wrapped around him, twitching and shuddering in a way that makes electricity crack and snap its way up his spine, but he's staring at her face. The wet line of her lips, full and inviting.

Her thumb grazes his tip, one handed now as her other palm falls flat on the lowest twitching muscles of his stomach, Castle leans in, desperate to see her eyes.

He coils both hands at her neck, a rough caress of her jaw angling her head to the side so he can lick her earlobe.

"Beckett."

She shivers and her eyes open. Beautiful. Hazel green. Angry still.

He holds her that way for a moment, not realizing what he's seeking until she gives it up unknowingly.

The _shit, we're really doing this_ look passes between them, chests bumping with every breath and she lifts her hands, wrists primed to tear him apart with the action of her seductive fingers.

Then anger rises up inside him again, chased by denial and taunted by need - want racing along side - it shouldn't feel like a battle, but it's does.

_He's in love with her._

She swallows and he does the same, claiming her wrists before she can start her slow tease again. His hands between them so intimately that all he can think of is tasting her and his mouth floods with saliva.

Castle licks his lips and follows her gaze, finds it trained on his mouth and aches desperately to give her what she wants. What he wants.

He pushes her thighs apart sharply and runs his palms over her simmering skin. Up and up, riding swathes of skin tight blue as high as they will go.

He drops his eyes and -

Black silk.

A raven blur against alabaster skin.

_Exquisite._

Castle swallows, clutches at her skin, fingers splaying. He reaches, waiting for a slap or a reprimand knowing neither is coming. She tugs him closer and helps him drag her underwear down her legs by lifting when he urges her.

Fingers light to the back of her knee, she breathes hard, a stroke over her ankle, her fingers clench white on the basin.

Castle holds the heel of her black stiletto and pulls her free.

He moves back up her body slowly, breathing hard through his nose. The midnight fleck of her pupils reaches his and he lays one, searing hot, open mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh.

She shivers, bodily. Head to toe. His fingers like ice when they slide inside her.


	6. Extraordinary

**A/N:** If you're still reading/reviewing/alerting thank you, I truly appreciate it, and as my next post will be next year, here's hoping 2014 is lovely for you and yours. Happy New Year xx

* * *

His fingers are like ice when they slide inside.

She clenches around him roughly. Feels his thumb smear heat and wetness over her and then press down. Another dart of frozen precision and ecstasy.

She doesn't know how long his hands were in the sink, plunged deep in cold water, but now they're deep inside her and the hot and cold combination is blurring her mind.

Shards of molten ice scatter through her sending sharp ripples of pleasure in every direction.

Her head hits the wall behind her and when Beckett leans away, desperately dragging air into her lungs and riding the upward surge of his hand, she knows.

She's not going to survive this.

She's not.

"Castle." She croaks, and her head rises, the touch of his fingers curling upwards, stroking, drawing her nearer, pulling her closer.

His eyes flick up, lashes parting slowly, his mouth still open on her thigh and -

"Oh."

Beckett flinches, clenches, feels his tongue strike out over her leg like a snake bite. A flash of nipping teeth and coiling perfection.

_But his eyes_.

The anger within her seems to coalesce, in drips of sultry irritability, temper pushed to its limits, her grievance rolls down her body like thick, boiling oil, seeping into every crack and crevice.

It rolls, ripples and surges in time with his movement - the fluid, harsh in and out of his fingers, the dirty liquid slap of her enjoyment filling in the gaps of silence - and it drives itself down her body to pool between her thighs.

Exasperation rises, antagonism chasing it skyward. Animosity, outrage and annoyance lick at her flesh like lovers. Every feeling she has ever had for him or felt in his presence - good, bad or otherwise - come at her.

They surge together, work against her, drive that thundering pulse to her heart, to the tips of each limb and swell each mounting crest until it's larger than the one that came before it.

Banter nips at their heels and as if hearing her train of thought his tongue darts out again, tastes her, swirls over her relentlessly until she's inhaling and holding on and nothing else exists.

Nothing.

Castle's fingers are up between her legs working her with the ease of their rapid back and forth repartee. His lips on her skin, chattering away and his hair in her clenched and shaking palms - it should feel shocking but ... but -

"Beckett." He growls, dark laughter hotly seeping inside her. Untangling her hand, thumb sweeping over her knuckles until he's tracing his fingers down the line of her cleavage, he demands, "Breathe."

He tugs on her chain, pulls until she has no choice but to sit up and force his fingers to slide deeper, "Breathe."

"Fuck." She gasps, loud, carnal, sensual, and her anger simmers hotly again.

He's winning.

_He's_ extraordinary not her.

He's stealing her breath and driving her crazy - always, always driving her crazy - and -

"No."

No. She came in here to prove a point.

"No." She says again, harder, more forceful, her nails digging into his wrist and her whole body shivering when he pulls his fingers from inside her.

Slowly.

She aches at their removal. Screams internally. Empty, the loss severe.

His eyes lose the mask of arousal instantly, her "No" resonating deeper than perhaps anything she has said before and Castle freezes.

Her ribs hurt, lungs burn. Muscles contorting rapidly to catch her breath and their eyes hold, vision blurred with nothing but each other.

Her cheeks are pink and his face is flushed and the crimson surge of blood over his lips darkens when she pulls his fingers up from her hip and slides them into her mouth.

"Beckett."

His voice is a whisper, awe chasing the letters of her name over his tongue. She trains her eyes on him and writes every single one of them at the tip of his digits.

Her tongue swirls, flicks, dances and he licks his lips as if tasting her again, her flavor now a memory that lingers. Vivid and pure.

His pads are calloused, rough under her tongue and crinkled like he's spent too long in a steamy, hot bath. Not buried knuckle deep inside her.

Her taste is sweet on him. The essence of Castle sharp behind the tang of her own body.

She bites at his knuckles, smirks around the length of his fingers when she rolls her tongue and pulls him deeper, feeling his hips thrust into the empty space between her splayed legs.

He should fill it.

She hooks her leg at his hip, bites and sucks his fingers, tangles her own free hand in his belt loop and pulls him closer.

The blue deepens and just before his lashes fall and he hides it away, Beckett catches sight of it. Something she thought she saw earlier, - that_ something_ she leaves unnamed and out of sight, locked deep in her own chest - _more_.

_This means something more._

"I thought - ?" His voice is deep, dark, quiet. Relieved.

She shakes her head, releases him, "You. Now."

Their eyes meet again, his fingers driving themselves into her hair, angling her mouth, kissing her hard and fevered.

Happy?

He kisses her like he means it. Devours, takes and conquers like before, but he gives it all back, pulling her with him.

Her hands find him as he strokes inside her mouth.

He's wider than she imagined, longer too, and hard and thick and every other word that does nothing to drown out the fact that she is holding Castle in the palm of her hand in the most intimate way possible.

She hears a rip and tear, feels him fumble between them, the soft crinkle and whisper of the protection he envelops himself in becoming a startling, cacophonous, erotic roar.

Their fingers tangle and soft latex grazes her skin.

Beckett shivers.

Mouth to mouth, lips wet with each other's kisses, noses brushing, their breath becomes one long, mutual sigh.

She blinks, but can't escape his focus.

It's there again, that _something_ in his eyes.

He grips her thigh, pulls her forward and slips his thumb between them. A spearhead to his invasion.

She gasps, wraps her legs around him, an arm clinging to his neck as she lifts up to meet him and he pushes inside.

He goes slow, a steady glide through ready, wanting, willing wet lips, deeper and deeper as she parts around him.

Every millimeter tingles.

Every centimeter burns in the best way. Every inch he gains within her makes her muscles judder and ripple and oh -

Oh.

Her head hits his shoulder. She buries her face in his neck.

Her ankles lock at his back. Her knuckles white in their straining grip on his shoulders.

He withdraws, pushes back in and she's done for.


	7. Together

She moans and he almost falters in rhythm, the long, low sound of her enjoyment tickling through him like mellifluous honey.

Her fingers tangle with his.

He's pushing inside and lost in the elastic cling of her surrounding him, her whole body quivering, goosebumps rising out over her flesh, everywhere he touches her.

She gasps his name into the sweaty curve of his neck.

"Castle."

His name, every time he slides back in.

"Castle."

She shudders around him, squeezes him in an aching grip, her spasming muscles kissing and shying away only to come back and do it again.

Harder.

Unrelenting.

The most beautiful he has ever seen her. Eyes wide and skin warm and wet and he's in love with _her_.

Kate Beckett - the fevered beauty falling apart in his arms.

_He's in love with her._

Her head is still down, forehead mashed to his clavicle. Barely breathing. Beckett shudders through every inward surge, squeezing when he's buried to the hilt. Clinging like she'll never let him go.

Trapped in a silken vice, she tightens and tightens only to release with startling speed as she rolls the lower half of her body into him with a dirty, resonating _slap_.

_Fuck_.

Beckett's teeth sink into his skin but she doesn't bite down. Her mouth opens and she uses him like an anchor, wet breath and the press of her tongue, hot.

Intoxicating

Her hands rise up from their death grip on his shoulders and he's not sure where she's going next, what she's doing, he's not even sure he cares anymore as long as they do it like this.

_Together_.

She feels so good, so warm and close and she ripples like rapid water, pools around him in blistering heat until he's bubbling up and boiling over.

Drowning in _her_.

Her wrists lock at the base of his neck, fingers weaving to cradle the back of his head. Her thumbs graze his jaw, rough over the light dusting of stubble.

Just as quickly as she dropped her head and hid her face from him, Beckett's rising up and startling him with the raw, naked, yearning flame that dances in an emerald green shimmer.

He's in love with her.

He slides out, holding onto the narrow grooves of her hips and the electric connection that crackles between their hooded eyes. Flaring from pupil to pupil, melting and sizzling everything in between.

She feels so good when he's inside her but he holds off pushing back in, torments them both for the longest seconds.

Her mouth is wet, shining and sinful, cheeks livid red.

He wants to kiss her.

Castle eases back - slowly this time - savoring the prickling burn of every inch, earning himself another gasp and Beckett's teeth sink down into her lip and she moans.

He stays buried deep, as close as they have ever been, noses tip to tip, hips aligned and thighs sliding against each other.

He's close enough to see the contrast of glazed pleasure and startling realisation wash through her.

Castle pulls her in tight, crowds himself around her, over her.

Inside her.

He circles his hips and is rewarded with the sweetest clench of spasming muscle he has ever felt. He does it again. A shorter circle. A tighter thrust, barely more than a rock up onto the tips of his toes.

Her legs struggle around him, pulling him impossibly closer, trapping and tangling them together.

Beckett's nails sink into the tender skin of his cheeks, sharp and unforgiving and she starts to work herself back and forth along his length.

His eyes snap shut and he withdraws, his tip grazing her before he plunges back inside. Another short, sharp circle of hips, her pressing down and grinding on him.

A squeeze, a nip of teeth.

Oh yes, just like _that_.

They find their rhythm, the gloriously fast, synchronized in and out of their snapping,_ contorting_, absorbing and _invading_ bodies.

"Fuck, Kate. Don't stop." He begs and delight simmers through her.

Whatever war she was raging, whatever tiny, little bit of herself she had been holding back _snaps_ and the mask falls. With crystal clarity he sees the hurt and the fear hidden behind her anger.

And more, something _more_.

Castle catches the tinge of it, a spark so desperately _close_ to what he feels for her that he falters. His whole body shocked.

His rhythm peters out, gets sloppy - she whimpers, nails clawing back her control - and the mask slides back into place.

Too late.

He's already seen beyond.


	8. Alone

**A/N:** Thank you so much for reading. For the person who asked me why? I say: Because! hehe

* * *

"Castle." She croaks and fuck!

How she doesn't come from the sound of his voice _alone_ - pitched low and threaded through with the need for release, begging _her_ not to stop - she will never know.

She's on a knifes edge, half agony, half desperation, a little lost in the feelings coursing through her that she knows he just caught sight of. Knows that there was a softness leaking into the black swathe of lust and he slows right down, stares into the depths of her eyes and -

He can see it.

Castle reigns in the need for his own explosive end and somehow he draws a dark, ardent cry from deep inside her chest.

His body becomes a rigid, frozen statue that spears her to the very core and she clenches around him, above, below and circling him, clenching, clenching.

Tight and spirally and slowly going insane because Castle won't go fast enough.

He just stares, rocks back and forth like he has all the time in the world and she's not being driven out of her mind with each slow slide of his body into hers.

Soft, whispering pleas, whimpers and whines leave her mouth and his hands at her hips hold her down on the countertop, forcing her to go at his speed.

The only leverage she gains is in arching her back, straining into his hands and pulling his mouth down to hers. She opens to him, claims, clings and devours him.

Whatever she can't do to his body - as he shakes and holds onto his willpower with an iron clad grip - she does to his mouth instead.

To his lips.

To his tongue.

The most erotic kiss she has ever shared is with Rick Castle in the bathroom at his book launch and somehow it's not surprising. It just feels _inevitable_.

The taste of him, the feel of him.

The _feel_ and the knowledge that he saw something in her that she's still hiding from herself.

A dark burn of release begins creeping up and her inner muscles clamp down all around him like a thousand fingers rippling in a endless wave of repetition.

He grunts at the sensation, gyrates and tangles himself up in her.

"Castle." She cries, her tongue swiping against his lips so her words are muffled, saliva dampened, carnal. The threat evident nonetheless, "Castle. Move!"

She rolls her hips and everything centers between them, where they are joined.

"Move."

A sweet undulation.

A promise.

_See how good it feels._

"Move."

He twitches, another grunted thrust, and she gasps, clings, flinches with the sharpness of joy that shivers inside her.

"Yes, more."

He shudders and his name leaves her in a drawn out sigh. "Castle, yes, yes, more. Move." Another frantic gasp, "Yes, yes. Please."

Her eyes open, hands at his jaw and he stares down and watches the internal waves rise up and claim her, rushing out over her skin in a blood red rush of passion.

It stains her skin. His too. Flesh flushed and luscious.

"Kate." He croaks and her name, the sound of his voice caressing each letter drives her closer. He can feel it. She knows he can

Castle pulls out - gives into her plea, dives into everything with her - pushes back in hard and fast, again and again and again.

His fingers climb her chest, stroke out over her breasts and taunt her nipples. He thumbs the peaks in incessant swipes and he feels her again.

Getting closer.

Fragile. Fierce.

Sweet. Fiery.

Her body alive and him ensconced within it.

"Kate." He hums at her ear, relishing the effect it has on her every single time he says it. The way she moans. The catch of breath that leaves her chest.

She's loud, she wants to warn him. Wants to take him by surprise just as surely as he's taking her.

She's_ loud_ and he's about to make her _deafening_.

He palms the back of her head, wanting to kiss her. She's desperate for the taste of him all over again.

His fingers wind between them and he grazes his own hard length when it slides into her, she feels the stutter of shock and delirium and the forceful, grunted thrust in response.

A white blaze of pleasure snaps through her and she clings to him.

He catches at the thin latex layer that separates them, feels it burning hot and drenched with her enjoyment and he growls her name, letting her feel how very wet she is for him with the press of his fingers.

His pads are slick to the knuckle and they slide easily, skimming her lips so that she bucks and moans gives up a litany of the dirtiest curse words he has ever heard.

"Fuck, Kate Beckett, what are you doing to me?" He grinds the words into her, a laugh torn from deep in his chest.

Her eyes flash to his with a look of _Me? What about you?_ staring straight back at him.

She gyrates as his fingers slip and _yes yes, fuck yes, Castle! Keep doing that_.

He pounds harder and strokes over her -

"Castle, Castle." She roars, but he can do nothing but kiss her. _Touch_ her.

The claws of his orgasm sink into him, course through him, throwing him higher, hitting low and hard and biting down with unrelenting ferocity.

"Kate. Kate. Kate."

He chants it, her name. Chants it over and over again drawing in ragged breath and keeping up the frantic snap of his hips. Their pelvic bones clapping together in a lewd ovation of their performance.

And she arches up, feeds hungrily from his mouth.

Her body becomes a whirling dervish, writhing against him and ensuring Castle is instantly blind to anything but the internal stranglehold she has on him.

He grips her hips, presses down with the roughened pads of his fingers and -

_Yes, yes yes._

She splinters apart all around him.

Her cries pierce the silence as wave after wave of fire licks out from the innermost parts of her body. It touches everything, bathes her skin, teases muscles and sinews and swells only to break her apart once more.

Every time she reaches a peaking crescendo he surges back inside and sends her spinning all over again.

He grunts and yes, yes, now him. She needs to feel him.

The unrelenting, fast and hard clamp and release of her muscles painful in their grip tighten even more and her fingers drop, down to where she milks him, dragging over him, flittering between nails and soft strokes.

She squeezes him - so hot and hard in her hands and - tangles her fingers with his - speaks quietly against his lips, her eyes drifting closed.

"Oh, yes, Castle!"

Flares of fire shoot up his spine, igniting within her and sparking out through their bones. Sliding inside one more time, his lips opening over hers, he bursts apart like liquid lightning.


	9. Separation

**A/N:** Small reminder this takes place during season two. Thank you for taking the time to read and review. Have a great weekend. :)

* * *

Hot breath shudders free from his lungs and she pants against his lips. Dirty blasts of moist air stain his skin, tasting like her.

_Everything_ tastes like her.

His head is spinning and every grunt of oxygen that he drags inside just about does its job before he's tugging in another, trying to calm the racing of his heart. The ache in his lungs.

Their hands are still joined, palm to palm, knuckles crushed together and resting on top of her thigh, damp with exuberant sweat. The pad of her thumb sweeps over his skin, little flares of unintentional electricity racing out and sparking at the bone.

Every now and then she jerks, shocking him with the sensation, and it takes everything in him not to give into the urge to collapse against her.

He pulls out. Slow, drowsy with satiation, delaying the inevitable separation of their bodies and the space that he knows is going to come flooding back in.

Castle - not wanting to detach from the fiery depths of her swollen, succulent body, but unable to bear the shaking of his legs while still buried inside her - steps back.

He feels Beckett's shivered reaction, the silk of her insides quivering deliciously as she finally releases him.

He slams a palm to the wall behind her head, drops his face into the curve of her neck and tries to remember how to fucking _breathe_.

She is exceptional. Beautiful.

He's in love with her. He knows it as surely as he knows what just happened was amazing and wonderful - mind blowing - and should _not_ have taken place in the bathroom of his book signing.

Not the first time. She deserves better than that. She's worthy of more.

So _much_ more.

Castle just needs to tell her that and get them both the hell out of here. They need to be somewhere secluded, somewhere he can take his time. They need to be somewhere with a bed and endless hours reaching before them so can he show her in finite detail exactly how_ amazing_ she truly is.

He can still taste her in his mouth, feel the wetness of her drying on his thrumming skin. And he's still touching her - not convinced he'll ever want to stop - his nose in the sweat dampened hollow of her throat, inhaling.

He touches his tongue to the skin there, slides it against the moisture and salt, hums and opens over her pulse. God, she tastes good. Like sex and sunlight.

She smells like it too.

It's making him ache again, he wants her _again_ and Castle drags his hand down the wall to the back of her neck, pulls her head in sharply and meets her lips.

He wants her to understand a little of the shock and energy and utter confusion his realization has plunged him into. He's in love with her, no doubt. Not the words she inspires, not the character on the page, not just the woman who could tear him apart with her bare hands and not just the woman he had sex with.

_He still can't believe that._

The shock of it ripples through him and with his pants around his ankles and her bare from the waist down he plunders her mouth, ignores the cold tile and the heat that is finally tingling through his frozen fingertips.

She grunts, surprised by his sudden attack and still trying to recapture her own breath, and Beckett stumbles her way into the kiss. She's artless and graceless and raw. Uninhibited and perfect.

She bites at it, at the swirl of his tongue and soft tangle of their lips, bites at him until it's just as much her kiss as it is his.

Until it's _theirs_.

She moans. A low and feral sound that springs from the back of her throat. Not the passionate cry of release and not the sultry sigh when he entered her.

This sound is new.

Softer, lighter, the hand holding his releases and her fingers climb up his chest, her other palm rises too and together they merge either side of his ribs. Her hands climb his back, fingertips gentle and seeking and in time they slide into his hair.

Her fingers curl within the strands, slight tugs that hold him in place and make his eyes close at the sensation. She moans again, almost purrs into the depths of his mouth and then her hands are dropping, palms hot as they swoop down to cup his jaw.

The tip of her fingers starts to slowly trace his earlobes, the first touch anything like a caress he's felt from her all night, something beyond indecent and hot as hell.

Loving not lustful?

They pull apart slowly, his hands in her hair and the silk of her cheekbones clinging to the knuckles of his thumbs as she nuzzles closer. Her eyes are wide and staring and so very _open_ that he can't help sinking into the warmth of her body, his nose just touching the tip of her own.

He finds some sort of truth in her eyes, a shared knowledge and he has to tell her, has to let her know how he feels. How amazing they were together.

"Beckett, that was - " He whispers, awed, lost for words.

And almost instantly, as if she knows exactly what he's thinking she's shoving him away.

Her eyes harden, her lips narrow, a brittle blink and she reverts instantaneously to the woman who strode in here less than half an hour ago out for his blood.

Kate drops down from the sink as Castle stumbles back, his eyes losing their magnetized hold with hers as he turns to catch himself on a stall door.

When he turns back her dress is in place and she's running cold water over her hands trying to smooth down her hair.

"Beckett - what the -?"

She turns and his voice falls away at the look that falls stark and pale over her face. With quiet deadly steps Kate moves closer and her hand clamps over his mouth. "Shut up." She hisses.

His eyes narrow. Lips pressing into the palm of her hand. She growls, shoving him backwards when she's confident he'll stay silent.

She adjusts her dress, doesn't even throw a second glance at the underwear on the ground at their feet before she heads for the door.

He cleans himself up in a rush. Hurries and tugs his clothes back into place so he can chase after her.

"Beckett." He tries but she's already flipping the lock, her fingers clenched around the handle, knuckles white and voice cold, whispering, her eyes flaring when they find his.

He sees it then, the _hurt_ that lingers within her.

Her lips clench.

She sounds bitter when she bites out the words. "You have no idea how much _more_ there is to _Nikki Heat_."

She pulls the door and turns on her heel, without a second glance, she's gone, leaving Castle shocked and alone in the bathroom.


	10. United

**A/N:** Sunday hugs, hope everyone is bundled up snugly and relaxing. Thank you for reading and reviewing!

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She could get used to kissing him, get lost in the soft feel of his lips moving in time with hers, in the way he holds her and guides her where he wants her only to suddenly pull back and let her take control.

They have a partnership in the way their mouths connect, a _united force_ that she could get lost in. The delicate feel of his hair under her hands and the way her fingertips glide over his face seeping into her bones and lulling her gently so that she leans into him.

The tips of her fingers glance his earlobes and everything zooms in suddenly. Him and her and the way they touch, the way they fit together. She could quite easily fall in love with the man in her arms.

She thinks she may have already done just that.

She strokes her fingers over his ears again, feels him brush the tip of his nose over her own and she stares directly into the warm liquid blue of his eyes barely a breath from her own. He strokes over her face and her lashes flutter.

He's been hard, firm, demanding and focused on their pleasure. Now he's gentle, it catches her off guard.

Their sighs and panting breaths die down to soft inhales, a shared space and the look that holds her to him lingers on

"Beckett, that was -"

Oh, god.

Panic wells up, he talks and his voice holds the quiver of something, something she's not sure of, something that sounds like it could be regret. It races through the words, brings the cold light of reality flooding back in.

Fear and anger race up her spine like icy fingers.

She's a fucking idiot.

He's about to say it was a mistake that they shouldn't have done it because he's leaving to write a _certain British spy_ - and she pretty much pushed him out the door to do it - that it was nice and fun while it lasted and maybe they could keep in touch.

Stay friends.

A thousand cliches ricochet through her head and every one of them hurts, hurts like rusted daggers under the tender surface of her aching skin, and she shoves him away.

She needs the distance.

Beckett ignores Castle as he stumbles, she just has to make it to the basin and throw cold water on her face before she bursts into tears.

She will _not_ fucking cry!

Glaring at herself in the mirror Kate can see clearly how torn apart she looks, how completely he has decimated her defenses. Castle has bulldozed right through every meager barrier she's erected around herself and left a glassy eyed fool in his wake.

She stares shocked at the woman in the mirror, at how thoroughly sexed and satisfied and _wanton_ she looks.

Her lips are swollen and red, there are light pink grazes covering her cheeks - burning over her thighs - and she works her hands into her hair, trying to straighten the tangled mess left by his fingers.

Kate pulls down the dress from where they'd hiked it up, smooths her hands over the flat plains of her stomach and ignores the ripple of muscle that protests at her touch. She tries desperately to restore some semblance of normality to herself and all the while her reflection stares back, a mockery that pities her.

With quivering hands, Kate splashes her face with cold water, needs to look calm and composed when she turns back around to face him.

She needs to look normal.

She needs to not look like she just fucked a renowned author at his own book signing in some vain attempt of convincing them both she's a worthy inspiration.

There's more to the character and there's a hell of a lot more to the woman behind her. But right now, mired in doubt, all she can do is question herself.

Did she have sex with him to prove that point?

_More to the character._

Or did she use that as an excuse because she really wanted_ him_? _Just_ him. The _man_ behind the words?

A little of one and far too much of the other is her answer because halfway through that last kiss - with his fingers in her hair and his thumbs tracing idle patterns on her jaw - she started picturing herself in bed with him, being woken by that same kiss on a lazy Sunday morning.

She's fucked up. She's a glutton for punishment and she knows what kind of man he is. He doesn't do _real_.

He starts to speak and she can't bear it, can't bear hearing him placate her and evade before fleeing into the night with her as yet another notch on his bedpost.

_A conquest._

She covers his mouth, demands silence before he can break her heart and she growls out the words into the little bathroom, shocking herself with how vicious they sound.

"Shut up."

His eyes open wide, sunny-day blue questioning, and his lips press into her skin, memories instantly flooding her.

She startles, tries to shake it off but the touch of his warm mouth to her palm sends darts of needful knowledge straight to every little bit of her that he kissed.

He looks shocked too, frightened even, maybe hurt. She ignores it, doesn't want the lies that will inevitably fall from his mouth.

Kate shoves him away, blurts out the truth and heads for the door. She throws her confession over her shoulder as she leaves, "You have no idea how much _more_ there is to _Nikki Heat_."

He thinks of them as one and the same, so why shouldn't she?

The rigidity of anger in her spine holds her up even as the cavity of her chest feels like it's caving in on itself and Kate storms through the door, feels it catch against her back as it slams shut again.

Instantaneously she is met with a flash of light.

Then another, whiter more blinding than the one before.

Then another.

And another.

The stuttered gasp of a million flashbulbs rise up to steal her breath from her chest. Her eyes close, a hand flaring up to protect her corneas from the violent assault and though years of tactical training tells her to keep moving, Kate finds herself frozen and immobile.


	11. Unmasked

**A/N:** Apologies, life eh! I endeavor to do better. Thank you for reading and taking the time to alert/review your words and growls and enthusiasm never fail to put a smile on my face. X

* * *

The door slams in his face and his mouth hangs open and Castle stares as though the next manic blink of his eyelids will restore sanity to what is in fact an _extremely_ fucked up situation.

One second he was kissing her and the next their little bubble burst - he glares at the door - no actually, it's more like their bubble _exploded_ and he has no idea why.

She's gone and yet her voice lingers in the atmosphere, too thick and charged with anger and regret for the force of her words to dissipate.

_You have no idea how much more there is to Nikki Heat._

Castle swallows them down, lets the sentence sink like a stone into the pit of his stomach. Is that what this is about?

Their early fight floods his mind, clarity like crystal, clear, painful and sharp, digs its claws into his subconscious and the words he used to hurt her - the words she threw back in his face - spin like a cyclone.

There is more to the character, of course there is, he knows that, he knew that, he created her. But why would she - Beckett - even care if she wants a _better writer_?

_Multi-faceted. Crazy. Frustrating as hell._

He glares at the door again, chanting phrases as he tries to make sense of the words she threw in his face, and the vision of her as she left him comes into focus once more.

_Vulnerable?_

A shade of pain had darkened her pupils far too vividly, when only moments before they had been lightened by the pleasure coursing through both their bodies.

_Hurt?_

There was something to the hard set of her lips - the faintest quiver.

Did he hurt her feelings as much as she hurt his with casual comments flung about in the heat of the moment?

Castle drags a hand down his face and finishes buttoning his shirt. He catches the back of his neck in his palms as he rubs at the muscle there and grinds his teeth together.

Loving her and being_ in_ love with her are two very different things. One he's not sure he had a choice in and the other he has absolutely no idea how to go about.

How do you_ love_ a woman like her?

And just like that he's back to _what the actual fuck, Beckett_?

She's a warrior and she's fierce, cautious and outgoing. She's angry and gentle and she fuels his imagination like no other, but more than that, she's special and she's real. She's _extraordinary_ and it burns like acid through his chest that she doesn't see that, that she doesn't see what he sees.

It shouldn't get under his skin the way it does, the way _she_ does, but that - the fact it hurts like hell - tells him there is something here.

They could be _more_.

It hurts him that Beckett can cast him aside so easily. She doesn't see herself, but she see's even less of who he really is. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in the back of his mouth, more anger.

Castle's striding back and forth now, almost unaware of his own actions. His fists ball up and his nails cut into his palms, palms that are still warm with the touch of her skin.

The scent of Beckett lingers all around him.

He doesn't know how to go about loving her - dealing with her, getting her to listen - but going after her seems like the ideal fucking place to begin.

Growling at himself, Castle gathers his courage and stoops down low to pocket her underwear. Anger propelling him like gasoline, indignation a vivid burning rocket fuel that lends speed to his footsteps.

He resists the urge to punch the door, opens it instead and, without blinking, strides straight into _her_.

Beckett, with her back to him, fingers clutched behind her. The body that just drove him half insane with ecstasy now frozen and rigid in front of him - and when Castle glances up he can see why.

A mass of photographers hover barely inches from them.

His first instinct is to yank her back into the bathroom, keeping them unmasked and out of sight, but that will inevitably stir up a shit storm that will not end well - especially for this guarded woman in front of him, undeserving of the baying jackals out for blood.

Castle refuses to let her be torn apart by the savage and relentless hounding she would endure. The slander and ridicule that would be thrown her way because of _him_.

His hands land on her bare shoulders, slide down her icy arms and he can feel Beckett tremble as she stares at the mob of press, loud and vicious and within arms reach of where they stand.

They are - thank fuck - facing away from the writer and muse frozen immobile in the doorway. The legion of flashing lights aimed in another direction and taking pictures of something - someone - else.

The ricochet of flashlights throw themselves around the room like rampaging lightning, casting stark white light and luminescent shadow where they fall.

But the barest rumble of a scandal at their backs and Castle knows exactly how this will end.

Fucking badly!

He doesn't say a word, doesn't risk the sound of his voice catching in the wrong ears and alerting them to their presence. Instead, Castle reaches out, slides his fingers between her own chilled digits and claims Beckett's hand. And, with a sharp tug, he pulls her off to the side.


	12. Cloaked

Kate holds her breath, she doesn't mean to but she does. Grinding her teeth and biting down on her tongue and - fuck - stuck exactly where she stands.

The buzz in front of her isn't wearing off, it might even be getting louder - droning incessantly in her ears - and any second now one of the trawling press mongrels will turn and see her emerging from the bathroom.

Now frozen in the doorway.

Her hair's a mess, as much as she tried to rid the remnants of Castle's fingers from the strands, somehow his touch still burns against her scalp and at the base of her neck.

There's stubble burn on her cheeks, wet lip prints and teeth marks in the delicate blue fabric of her dress.

Oh god, the dress.

Rumpled and ruined and a complete giveaway, it clings to her body almost as tightly as Castle did. As tightly as she clung to him.

Shit, she left her underwear on the floor in the bathroom.

Thoughts dart through her mind in random succession but no matter how she spins it in her own head absolutely everything about her is a walking billboard for what they just did and, _for fucks sake_, she needs to pull herself together.

The anger that was rising up inside her - desperate to quell the aching chasm she could feel forming in her chest at the thought of his approaching rejection - is slowly replaced by the steady drip drip drip of self preservation through her veins.

She needs to act, needs to move. She needs to get a fucking grip and get the fuck out of here. As far as Kate can see, she only has two options.

Step forward and face the press or turn tail and face Castle.

Both are terrifying, but with her teeth in her lip, the air trapped in her lungs thumping at her ribs for release, she curls a hand behind her and reaches backwards to claim the handle so she can throw herself into the bathroom.

Instead the solid form of Castle collides into her back before she even finds the door and were it not for her teeth already biting down on her lip she would be grunting out in shock and giving them both away.

The barest oomph of sound leaves her instead and for a brief moment she almost expects him to crack a joke. Kate tenses against him, waits, feels the shift of his body press tight to the backs of her legs and the frozen length of her spine.

Castle's closeness, the blistering heat of him standing behind her, finally makes her release the breath she's been holding on to. He jerks and the way he stiffens instantly sets her mind at ease. The unconscious reaction he has to the press mob tells her he feels _exactly_ the same way she does.

They need to get the hell out of here. Now!

Castle emits a sound behind her, anger and annoyance and frustration all melding together and rumbling low at the back of his throat. A short vibration ripples through his chest, shivers down her spine and Kate can feel her heartbeat ricochet through her body, pulsing and pounding to the tips of her toes.

He's pissed off, she can feel it in the hard wall of muscle at her back, there is a rigidity to him similar to what she could feel from him when she first stormed into the bathroom and her brow narrows and knits together in response.

He's not just angry at the photographers, he's angry at _her_.

She sets that aside for the moment and jumps when his hands land on her skin, the width of his palms huge and easily encompassing her slender arms. His fingers dwarf her narrow bones, caress muscles and sinew as they slide, a string of goosebumps erupting in the scorching trail he leaves.

The heat of his hands permeates deeply into her skin, sinks through each layer leaving a calming warmth in its wake and his touch alone sends a warm rush of reassurance down to her fingertips, before he captures her hand.

She's thankful for it and hating it all at the same time. He has her back _literally_ and now he's holding onto her hand.

Starting with his thumb and slowly, finger by finger, Castle interlinks their hands, locking their knuckles together, keeping them palm to palm, before he squeezes gently. A message that screams to her in their self imposed silence. _Trust me_.

_Does she trust him?_

_Can she?_

As she contemplates his movements, eyes never straying from the people in front of them, one hand wraps around her from behind. His fingers splay wide across her abdomen and almost as if they are slow dancing with her back to his chest, Castle pulls her body in tightly to his.

The tips of his fingers press firmly, hold her closer and the muscle beneath his hand jumps to attention. Desperate and against her will, awake and alert to his touch.

Hot, moist breath flares fire at the base of her neck, lifts the straggles of hair from her skin and makes them ripple and tickle at her nape.

A rush of blood rises up, staining her cheeks and pounding in her ears. Surging high and swooping away again, low and in time with every steady inhale from Castle. A push and pull of oxygen and intensity that leaves her breathless, more so than before.

_Any second now someone will turn and see them._

He has to tug to get her moving, has to drag just enough for those first few steps to catch and flitter through her mind, and they slide a little in the right direction.

But it's his lips at her ear that finally make her_ move_.

When they're far enough away, Castle clutches tight to her, like he cannot bear to let her go, and his nose skims her neck, his mouth opening hotly against the shell and lobe as he hisses, "Move, Beckett."

It sounds like _more_.

_More Beckett._

A plea, a feral demand. A wanton call for release.

She's catapulted straight back to what can only have been minutes before and the feel of him as he drove himself into her. And then, as if a switch has been flipped her feet are moving in time with his. A synchronized rhythm.

As one they race away from the throng, moving stealthily off to the side, sliding with their backs to one wall.

Ten steps. Fifteen. Twenty. They move together.

It all happens in a few seconds, but the way her body is bombarded with sensation, with longing and contrasting emotion, it feels like hours pass as she extracts herself slowly from Castle's grasp.

There are no dark hideaways or corners to lay low in. The room is a buzz and bright and everywhere she looks his fucking name is plastered in gigantic letters, cardboard cutouts of his face dangling from every surface and reminding her exactly where they are and what a monumental fucking mess they are in.

She feels his body pivot away, his hands releasing her reluctantly and Castle follows her line of sight. Something ripples over his face slowly, his features, usually unmarred and mirthful, take on a pained expression before he sighs.

Just like that he surprises her again.

The Castle before her seems cloaked in remorse, a soft tender look in his eyes coming to life when he turns to face her. He reaches out, mindful of where they are, and presses the tip of one finger to the back of her hand, his voice low and quiet, a shared thing just between the two of them "Look, Beckett -"

"Detective Beckett?"

"Rick, there you are."

From opposite sides of the room familiar voices come at them, opposing forces claiming their attention and pulling them apart.

Kate jumps back at the sound of her name, stepping away from Castle as if proximity will give them away.

Turning almost back to back, she and Castle stare into the faces of the people coming for them. Her captain and his agent share similar and knowing looks, eyes raking over the couple before them as they are interrupted.

And busted.

Fuck.


End file.
